Page 15 of Forgery, Love, and Other Lies
She was a jeweler’s daughter. As much as she amused him, she’d likely get in the way. And he could not let her tag along. That would lead only to whispers, questions about their connection to one another, pressure, even, to do the proper and make a legal connection he did not wish.
“Well, Lord Lysander,” Miss Frampton barked. “What is our next step?”
He wagged the remaining half of his scone in Miss Fiona’s wide-eyed, fresh face. “Not all the scones in the world could fortify me against this, against your concentrated attack. But I’m ready to prevail nonetheless. I understand your desire to help, but hear me well when I say it is not the proper way to go about things. Send me information if it comes your way, but there is noourabout this investigation.”
“And why not, Zander?” Maggie looked at him as she often looked at a sketch she was working on, a pattern to be woven on the silk her husband made and sold for a pretty penny. Her usually bright eyes were hard, and her mouth thin, both signs the gears in that head of hers were clicking, clicking, clicking. “Why will you not let her help? The matter impacts her as much as it does you, us.”
Zander shoved the rest of the scone in his mouth and paced back and forth across the room, chewing. “Let’s see.” Scone bits flew in all directions. “First, she’s an art forger. Second, who knows what nefarious plots have the dowager tied up who knows where. Little Miss Forger Frampton might get hurt if she sticks her nose where it does not belong.” He did not truly believe the dowager had been abducted for her art collection, but perhaps it would keep the dangerously intrepid miss at bay.
“Pardon me, sir.” The sister’s voice was like winter that had come too soon, killing every bit of green in the land. “You will desist from your insulting language.”
He stopped pacing. “But she can insult me?”
Miss Fiona stood, smoothing her skirt with hands that shook just slightly, and faced him with a face calmer than her trembling fingers. “Let us put insults aside, Lord Lysander. We share a problem, and I would like to be part of the solution.”
She was brushing aside their animosity in order to establish a partnership. But what good would a partnership do? His need for an excellent artist had long passed. The girl knew nothing. He must stride on alone. He came to stand before her in two long steps and held his palms out, offering the only thing he had for her—rejection. She smelled of wind and paper, a curiously fresh combination that soothed him, made the boundless energy coiling through his veins slow a bit, made him think of resting because the perfect place to rest might be just within reach… It was a slow sort of tiredness, a peace, not the rocking exhaustion he’d felt of late.
He cringed. He could at least be kind. “Miss Fiona. I apologize for my unpardonable manners. I have not been myself of late.”
She nodded. “Understandable with the stress of the dowager’s disappearance. I, too, have been out of sorts.”
“But I cannot let you involve yourself further. It seems to me you should duck your head low, give up painting entirely, and pray to God no one but me ever discovers what you can do. What you have done.” He took a step back. “I’ve a trip to prepare for.”
“Something to do with the dowager?”
Partially. “No. Work.”
“You work? You’re a marquess’s brother.”
He shrugged. “Apoormarquess’s brother. Good day, Miss Fiona.” He bowed then flicked a gaze toward the sister. “Miss Frampton.” He reached into his trouser pocket as his feet slapped against the worn hallway planks. He’d put an old locket there before leaving his bedchamber. Or half of one, the hinges ripped open, and the front half hidden. What picture had a long-ago owner put in there once? Likely it had been more valuable to them than the metal that encased it.
But not more valuable than the missing Rubens were to Zander. Selling them would be a new start for their family, would undo much of the damage their father had done. His mother had even agreed to give them the paintings without the will’s single stipulation—that they create a work of art first. A worthless concession now that they could not sell the paintings at all. They didn’t have them, and it would be a crime to sell the forgeries.
Zander had to find the originals. Not only to help his family’s finances, but because he needed to right his wrong, to return to his family the stability his father had taken from them. That Zander had stolen from them, too, when he’d stolen the originals and replaced them with fakes.
And now the joke was not on dear old Papa but on his brothers and sister who’d counted on their inheritances to make the way forward easier. He’d robbed them of that, enraged his brother Raph, and proven himself a burden. When he’d only ever wanted to be, like his older brother, a savior for those he loved most.
Six
The emerald between Fiona’s finger and thumb glittered as she set it into its golden home, completing the leaf Mr. Foggy had designed and crafted. Designed well and crafted poorly. As usual. One more emerald to set and the brooch would be fixed. She looked behind her at Papa snoozing by the fire. He’d gotten up from the worktable mid job and plopped down in that chair, leaving the piece unfinished. And Fiona had wandered away from her easel once the snoring had started, abandoned the vapid painting of the still life posed before her, and picked up the broken brooch.
Her father would find it completed when he awoke and think he’d done it and simply didn’t remember doing it. And Fiona would keep her silence gladly by imagining the benefits of such a deception.
Perhaps the woman who owned the brooch would be so grateful it had been fixed with such expertise, she’d switch her custom, make Frampton’s her jewelry home. Then she’d tell all of her tonnish lady friends, who would turn their backs on Foggy and march themselves down to the Frampton’s door, wringing their hands, begging Posey and Fiona for high-quality settings. Then, knowing he had finally met defeat at the hands of two young women (she could ignore the fact no one was supposed to know women essentially ran Frampton’s in her own imagination), Foggy would shutter his doors and leave London, tears wetting his cheek.Then—
“Fiona!” Posey swung into the backroom of the shop, only her hand wrapped tight around the doorframe stopping her trajectory. “One of the boys you’ve bribed is here with news.”
Fiona’s tools clattered to the table as she popped to her feet. “Excellent. I’ll speak to him in the side alley.” They could not converse inside the shop. The fancy ladies of the ton would not approve of riffraff like Tommy and his friends loitering there, even if they’d been given permission to do so. A hypocrisy after sailing through a duke’s front door, but a necessary one. The Framptons had to maintain a façade of gentility, even when they clung to its very edges only. Especially then.
Posey disappeared, and Fiona donned her pelisse and bonnet. She glanced at her Papa, snoring in an armchair. Best not to bother him. He’d been silent with her since Lord Lysander had forced her to spill her secrets. She did not blame him, though the silence felt fragile, as if any wrong move might shatter it, sending glass shards into her skin to burrow down deep, to cut her everywhere.
She held her breath as she left the workroom and entered the alley through the shop’s back door.
Tommy waited for her, his cap pulled down low. He leaned on a wall, hands shoved into pockets, and he whistled a song she knew to be crude.
“Good afternoon, Tom,” she said as the door closed behind her.
He looked up. “The fella’s back in town, Miss Fee.”
